Hiding Time

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Self-reflective, Jack discusses his fears and motivations for being creative. Leaving a mark.

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I wear a mask to go hard
And I take the lie pretty far
Fake like I’m born with these scars
I don’t bruise, I’m from mars
Way high up in the stars
With red eyes locked like darts
Just ’cause I’m smarter when I gab
That’s why I overstand to rap and spit
Can barely stand hands frosty grip
Around my throat
The grip won’t slip
Hope I don’t choke
I’m rolling throwing blame at frozen shame
Stone cells, prison brain
Shattered the glass house
The crash was mad loud
I’m assed out
No second chance will pass down
Claim sober to be left alone
It’s over
Getting closer for…

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Blind Allegiance

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Jack updates us on his current political standing.

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The long line grows. Followers chosen by God herself. To enslave the children. To fight the dark forces. Hostages for a better world. When white robed phantoms spread their word from beyond the grave.
And they begin. “Where is my…” with air quotes, “Money?”

Revive the fallen. Destroying and eradicating the dark forces. Blue suited shiny badges of honor with guns pressed against the backs of the perceived enemy. A strike by the rebellion unable to regain the dwindled numbers of the “home team” reaching to even the odds by reducing the “away.”

Shackles and iron bars for the shades not aligned with the morally gray stars on the flag. Red bloods of white skin on the blue ball owned by green presidents.

Trumpets play as the blue birds chirp overhead. The distraction for those chewing gum silent masturbating to gun violence.

Oh dear, how the toppling towers teeter. No use crying over spilled oil. The dividers keep the…

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Cardboard Boxes

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Loud voices. How annoying.

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No one escapes the box
No holes, can’t breath
No sunlight to see
No hope, can’t leave
In the dark the mind plays games
Demons and shadows, no faces, no names
They dance and battle
Confrontational, no shame
From inside the cement box
The cement blocks the outside’s clocks
Tossing glass inside stone houses
Sharp shards prance
All the small pieces
Individually, no meaning
Prisoners, no feeling
Illusions of identity
Profound how having ears to the ground sound loud
Shouts drown down
Nothings on the other side
Beg to die
But this prison named hell has other plans aside
There’ll never be goodbye
Stuck here beyond death
Fucked clear to regret

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Institutionalized

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Circumstantial imprisonment happens quite often. Justice is a fiction told to people desperate for a fantasy to believe in. Put the animal in a cage long enough and watch it respond to its environment.

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The interrogator with the evidence, the reports, the witnesses and the accusations is always the last to know the truth. Left with only assumptions.

The suspect without any of the evidence, any report or witness enters knowing he’s innocent from the start. A fact memory serves well.

Yet, six months training, a badge and a gun convince the interrogator his intuition is more valid than personal experience.

Biased jurors, law bound judges, money hungry attorneys with cleverly worded questions and a year worth of court visits turn a man into a monster.

Ten years in a cage with murderers and thieves corrupts even the purest of saints.
When the bars are pulled away and the sunlight is remembered awareness settles.
It was safer in the box.

In the outside world the word of truth goes ignored.

Preconceptions get twisted and morphed.

Friends and family who knew more kept silent.

Fear.

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Symbolic Sentience

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The thought of the Letters.

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Symbols, but mere ideas
Random configurations up to interpretation
Not real. Rather, projections in the mind of the reader dissecting it
Loose strings more or less connecting at intersecting points
Where we join we seem to behave in patters visible to human brain
Until they realize and think that its all in their heads
An illusion they choose to embed

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Planning for Later

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After finishing his 365 Project Jack is eager to see what comes next for him.

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Been restless for days. Fastened safe behind the door of the bunker. Clicking and ticking the word keys. Idea stacking. Format building. Adding shape and structure. Fleshing out the details of the future for the future. Doing it all drained from the won race.

Constructing new tools to face unmet targets. Swords for battle and sticks for stability.

Victory battles don’t predict ended wars. Ended wars still have the aftermath. Recovery is gradual behind the worn inkless pen. Winners decide the history.

A war of infinite battles has no finish. Each finale is but a stepping stone to the next risk.
It was all just chapter 1.

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Desperate Thinking

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Many of the major struggles we deal with as adults are internal. And they surround the perpetual identity crisis the “adult experience” turns out to be. Some of our worst demons reveal themselves to be a major part of our identity.

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In the back of my mind the grind stays in line
Shows up on time
Thick sludge slime drips off ass it goes by
Slow drive
No life, it chases faceless cries
Whines stalking hated ties through crooked lies
It takes or it dries
Created illusions for desperate tries
Feeling asleep still hoping to die
Never real, but always alive
Never bad, but always a crime
Chiming the rhymes of evil
Slides off the tongue perceiving
Fires burn the homes
Screeching iron melting down
Reaching into hollow grounds
Spinning, churning, twisting round
Molten lava leaking out
The creaking shack is splintered, brown
No sneaking in without a sound
The bleak still ring it sings resound
Trapped inside with screams and shouts
Rotted corpses stand about
Mules and horses on propaganda routs
Burnt alive behind the eyes
To all the rest I stand here fine

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Writing by Hand

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There is mystery behind not knowing what words come next when hand writing. More difficult to come by when typing. The slow paced nature of writing by hand leaves mystery to uncover, even for the writer.

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There’s a pleasant seduction behind the ink of a pen. Something about not knowing how long until “the surprise” or “the point” lands on the page is alluring. Even knowing where the work will go isn’t enough. The casually paced process is designed to gradually expose.

An arousing lust, flirty and curious for the next words, drives the ideas forward. As if it smiles back tempting possibilities and teasing wants. A sexy little dance, while motionless, wiggles in the back of one’s mind as a playful draw for more proceeds.

Biting a lip, dragging the pen across the page with delicate hands to guide purpose with care. Ever-so-gentle and crafted a letter at a time, the love filled spiral of intrigued pries. Digging up the fertile soil in search of seeds. Fascinated by the limitless capacity of imagination.

Turned on by the reckless direction, starved and animalistic.

A raw, dangerous and unpredictable monster dressed in ink is the hand written narrative.

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Perspective Death

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Death to a Perspectivist can take many forms. This is what it looks like for Jack.

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Many mourn with tears upon death, focusing on the absence of the individual life-force.

I consider death no more than the end of a book I’m part of. They’ve moved out of this three dimensional plain and are off to bigger and better things elsewhere in transcendent reality. In seeing it this way I forget about the absence. It’s like a friend moving away too far to communicate with in any feasible way. They’re just somewhere I can’t reach is all. Thus I remember the good times spent with the individual. It’s all there is left to do. The tears won’t bring anyone back or fix any personal problems I might be having. But I can enjoy what was and consider the death a completion of a unique book. I get to revisit the pages as often as I’d like.

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